Castro's Daughter

by David Hagberg

  The agent held for a moment, like a deer caught in headlights, but then he pulled out his pistol and dropped it to the ground along with his identification wallet and his cell phone, and turned and headed toward the crowd.

  Shoving the pistol in her purse, she picked up the agent’s badge, pistol, and cell phone.

  Checking one last time that no one was coming her way, she got behind the wheel and headed for the west checkpoint on the narrow two-lane Forrest Road that ran straight across the base from Airport Road to Highway 54, which in turn would take her a few miles south to I-10 and from there only three miles farther to El Paso’s international airport.

  Even if McGarvey came looking for her, no one would suspect she’d used the local airport to make good her escape instead of returning across the border to Mexico.

  She had been standing in the shadows at the bottom of the trench, just a few feet from where Fuentes had taken McGarvey, and she’d heard everything. The gold was at Fort Knox, not here, and the traitors from Miami had gone there to claim it. It all had been a gigantic ruse that had claimed the freedom and probably the lives of Román and the attorney Rosales. Fuentes was dead, by McGarvey’s hand, and there was a good chance that she would be assassinated if she ever returned to Cuba, unless she could make another end run. God, how it rankled, how it hurt, how it was so stupidly embarrassing. She’d reached high—El Comandante’s daughter had—and she was on the verge of failure. No going back for her. Not now, not like this. No settling in with the traitors in Miami, either. They would kill her the moment they saw her.

  Unless she could make one final deal. A desperation move, but she figured it was her only avenue.

  A Hummer was parked on the side of the road, and María held the FBI badge out the window, and the soldiers waved her through.

  As soon as she hit Highway 54, she used her BlackBerry to connect with an airline booking agency for any flight direct to Atlanta, and she got a first-class seat on Delta flight leaving at nine this evening. She paid for it with her Ines Delgado credit card, which she thought would raise no red flags anywhere except Mexico City and Havana. With luck, the FBI agent would not be believed by the army units without identification long enough for her to get away, and his car wouldn’t be discovered in the airport parking garage until morning, by which time she would be long gone.

  Her father had made her promise: for salvation. He’d meant Cuba’s salvation, or at least that’s what she thought he’d meant. But now it was for her own salvation, and maybe her personal retribution, because she was angry that she had been so easily used.

  Her grip tightened on the steering wheel as she made the connection with I-10 and headed east. She had been angry for as long as she could remember, and for just a few beats now, she wondered if it had been worth it. If she’d ever accomplished anything worthwhile because of it.

  And another thought crossed her mind—so sudden, so compelling, and so alien to everything that she believed in, it almost took her breath away.

  She realized, just then, that she had fallen in love, which in a way made her even more angry than she’d ever been. It was a weakness that she despised.

  EIGHTY

  The gunfire had been reduced to sporadic shots around the nearly three-quarter-mile perimeter just outside the depository’s fence line. Raúl was hunkered down behind his Cadillac with Otto, who was trying to establish contact with someone, anyone, via computer.

  “Anything yet?” Raúl asked.

  “Cell phones have been blocked.”

  “I know, I can’t contact my lieutenants to find out what the hell is going on. But I think the goddamn DI infiltrated us in Miami. What about your sat phone?”

  “I’m searching who on Fort Bliss has one. Maybe I can get patched through to Bogan.”

  Minutes after the first shots had been fired, the tanks blocking access to the roads leading off the base had rumbled closer, and the one on Bullion Boulevard to the east had moved to within twenty or thirty yards of the line of cars and buses that stretched along Gold Vault Road.

  “Whatever it is, do it fast,” Raúl said. He pulled out his 9 mm Beretta and checked the load.

  Otto looked up from his computer and blinked furiously. “Where are you going?”

  “The DI has infiltrated us, and someone has to take care of it, because most of these people aren’t armed.”

  “What about your lieutenants?”

  “I told them no shooting unless their lives depended on it.”

  Otto cocked an ear. “Well, it’s calmed down for now, but if you go out there and get into some kind of a gun battle with the bad guys, the general is likely to send his troops in, and then we’ll have a big mess on our hands.”

  “We’ve already got a big mess,” Raúl said.

  “Mac said that he was on his way before we were cut off.”

  “That’s a thousand miles or more to Louisville and twenty miles by road here. So even if he’s already in the air, I don’t think we can hold out that long—maybe until two this morning—unless we do something right now.”

  Martínez was a lot like McGarvey: almost impossible to argue with once his mind was made up.

  “Don’t get yourself shot to death,” Otto said. “Mac would never let me forget it. Besides, you’ve got a lot of work to do after you get back to Miami.”

  “Try to reach Bogan,” Raúl said, and keeping low, he scrambled to the two dozen people flat on the ground behind the bus that had brought them north. Many of them were women with a few children. But most were men and they were angry.

  “You said there would be no gunfire!” one of them shouted.

  “Keep it down,” Raúl said. “Did you see anything?”

  The man, who was at least in his mid-seventies, noticed the pistol in Raúl’s hand. “Muzzle flashes about fifty yards maybe a little closer to the west, but that was fifteen minutes ago.”

  “I maybe saw something on the other side of the depository,” another man said. “But it’s quiet now.”

  “What about the military?” the old man asked. “Are they going to try to arrest us, or move us out?”

  “They will if this shit keeps up.”

  “Is it the DI bastardos?”

  “I don’t know who else,” Raúl said.

  “Where is he going?” one of the other men said, pointing down the road.

  Raúl turned in time to see Otto marching along the line of cars, past where people were huddling, directly toward where the tank had taken up position.

  “Dios mío!” Raúl shouted. He jumped up and raced back, catching up to Otto who was just coming abreast of the last bus before the intersection with Gold Vault Road which went left.

  Otto had his hands up and Raúl grabbed his arm and tried to stop him, but Otto pulled away. “Get your pistol out of sight, and stay right here. I might have a chance to buy us some time.”

  “You’re going to surrender to the tank commander?”

  “What do you think he’s going to do, order his crew to shoot me?”

  “He just might,” Raúl said. But he stuck his pistol in his belt beneath his jacket. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Stay here,” Otto said, but Raúl shook his head.

  “If I let you get shot to death, Mac would for sure never forgive me.”

  “Let me do the talking,” Otto said, and keeping his hands up, marched past the bus and across the intersection, Raúl right behind him, the people behind the bus watching them as if they were muy loco.

  The tank’s turret swiveled so that the main gun was pointed right at them, and they stopped about ten yards away.

  “Either shoot me, or pop out of there so that we can talk!” Otto shouted.

  The Abrams M1A2 battle tank’s engine rumbled softly, and in the distance they could hear other engines, but most of the helicopters had landed in the field near the woods to the east, only one in the air at least a half mile south.

  “I don’t think they know what to do with us,”
Raúl said at Otto’s shoulder.

  The tank’s top hatch opened, and a man with lieutenant’s bars, a tank commander’s helmet, and headset appeared. “Gentlemen, state your names and business.”

  “I’m Otto Rencke, and I work for the Central Intelligence Agency. Please relay to General Bogan that I was the one who hacked your communications system and unless you pull your heavy hardware back, we could have a serious situation here.”

  “Yes, sir, stand by,” the tank commander said. He spoke into his headset for a bit. “Who is the other man?”

  “My associate,” Rencke said. “Kirk McGarvey should be here in two or three hours, at which time the entire situation will be explained.”

  The lieutenant was relaying Otto’s words. “General Bogan asks that you immediately disperse, return the way you have come.”

  “That’s not possible at this time.”

  “You will be subject to arrest and prosecution.”

  “I think that General Bogan has other orders from President Langdon.”

  In this instance, the delay between the time the lieutenant relayed Otto’s words and the general’s response was longer. Almost a full minute.

  “There has been gunfire from your group.”

  “We believe that several Cuban intelligence officers have embedded themselves within the exiles. So far as we understand, none of it has been directed at your people or at the depository.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “To stop us,” Otto said. “Mr. McGarvey will explain everything as soon as he arrives. He’s flying up from Fort Bliss aboard a CIA Gulfstream, and he’ll want clearance to land at the nearest airstrip. I would expect Godman.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Tell the general that the president will in all certainty direct otherwise.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rencke, but the general again orders that you immediately disperse.”

  Otto took two steps forward, when he was flung face-down onto the pavement, and seconds later, the sound of a rifle shot whip-cracked from somewhere behind.

  EIGHTY-ONE

  In the air, McGarvey tried twice again to reach Otto’s cell phone with no response, and he was beginning to get seriously worried. It was a little after nine in the evening Mountain Standard, and the pilot had given him an ETA at Godman Air Field of 12:45 A.M. Eastern, two hours plus, during which a lot of bad things could happen.

  “We still don’t have clearance to land at Godman,” the pilot, Roger Darling, told him.

  “They give a reason why?”

  “No, sir. But from what I’m reading between the lines, something big is happening out there, and they’ve got the entire complex on lockdown.”

  “Who’d you talk to?”

  “I managed to get a relay from Cincinnati Center direct to Godman’s chief air traffic controller.”

  “Can you get him back?”

  “Yes, sir, but he won’t talk to you,” Darling said.

  There’d been resistance—it was the only explanation McGarvey could think of. He and Martínez had discussed the possibility that the DI might embed agents in the crowd and once at Fort Knox might try to start some trouble. The real problems were how Martínez and his lieutenants would handle it and what the military response would be.

  “Get me the president,” McGarvey said. “I’ll take it in the back.”

  He went aft and sat down at the communications console, and waited until the call came through a couple of minutes later. The flight attendant had made himself scarce.

  “Good evening, Mr. President. I think we may have a developing situation at Fort Knox.”

  “We certainly have. There’s been gunfire and casualties, including Otto Rencke, a friend of yours, I believe. The army is on the verge of moving in and breaking up the crowd by force.”

  For several long beats, McGarvey could feel his sanity slipping away, and he didn’t know how he could possibly bear another loss, and what would it do to Louise and to the baby they’d adopted? Or how he could keep from going on a killing rampage?

  But then the aircraft’s interior came back in focus and he loosened his iron grip on the phone. “What’s his condition, sir?”

  “I’m told a bullet grazed the side of his head, but other than headaches and some blurred vision for a day or two, he’ll be fine,” Langdon said. “Where are you?”

  “In the air about two hours from Godman Air Field for which we’ve been denied clearance to land,” McGarvey said. The relief was sweet. “And apparently cell phone traffic has been blocked.”

  “On General Bogan’s orders, he didn’t want the dissidents to coordinate any sort of an attack.”

  “Exiles, sir,” McGarvey said. “I’d like to talk to him, three-way with you, Mr. President.”

  “Would you mind explaining what the hell you have in mind?” Langdon demanded.

  “It’ll be easier if I explain it to both of you at the same time, sir.”

  “Just a minute,” the president said, and it was obvious he didn’t like being talked to this way.

  A minute and a half later, the president was back. “General Bogan?”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” the general said. He sounded tense, and there was a lot of noise in the background—what sounded like radio traffic.

  “Kirk McGarvey is on the line with us. He’s incoming in about two hours aboard a CIA aircraft, and he will be given clearance to land at Godman.”

  “Sir, I can’t guarantee that he won’t receive ground fire.”

  “Mr. McGarvey?” the president prompted.

  “We’ll take our chances,” McGarvey said. “I’ll instruct my pilot. In the meantime, there’re a number of things that I need you to do for me, so that we can get through this night with no further casualties.”

  The general started to object, but Langdon cut him off. “Mr. McGarvey is operating under my orders.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is there any gunfire from the crowd at this moment?” McGarvey asked.

  “Not for the past ten or fifteen minutes, and then only a single shot here and there.”

  “Then it’s not an all-out assault.”

  “No,” the general said.

  “You will order your troops to stand by but not to open fire for any reason—any reason—other than to defend their own lives.”

  “What if they storm the fence?”

  “I’m hoping they’ll do something to get inside—in fact, I’m counting on it. But even if they actually reached the depository, there’s no chance they could get inside. At some point in the next two hours, I want all the lights cut, and under cover of darkness, I want the gate opened and the Mint Police manning it to go to the depository and wait inside.”

  “Mr. President?” Bogan asked.

  “You have your orders,” Langdon said tightly.

  “And I want the cell phone network restored. The leader of the exile group has arranged lieutenants to keep the peace. Without communications, they cannot coordinate any effort to take out the embedded DI operatives.”

  “Is there anything else, sir?” General Bogan asked briskly.

  “The next part will be up to you, Mr. President,” McGarvey said.

  “I’m listening.”

  “You understand what’s at stake, so I want two things. From what I understand, it takes ten members of the depository staff to dial separate combinations to actually get into the vault area.”

  “I don’t know that for a fact at the moment, but providing you are correct, what is it that you want?”

  “Access to vault C at first light for me and one representative from the exiles.”

  Bogan started to protest, but again the president cut him off. “For what purpose? What do you want?”

  “Just to look, nothing more.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “And I want the media to be allowed access to the crowd immediately after we’ve seen the vault.”

  “And then what?” Lang
don asked.

  “What we talked about will have a chance,” McGarvey said.

  * * *

  The area cell phone service was resorted ten minutes later, and McGarvey was able to reach Otto at the hospital near Fort Knox Headquarters.

  “Oh, wow, I think I got lucky.”

  “Sounds like you did. How do you feel?”

  “Like a computer with a badass virus,” Otto said. “Are you close?”

  “Less than two hours. Langdon’s going along with everything, so we’ll know by dawn.”

  “I hope it’s there.”

  “So do I,” McGarvey said. “Take care.”

  He phoned Martínez, who answered on the second ring, all out of breath. “I hope this is Mac.”

  “Two hours out with Langdon’s blessings. What’s your situation?”

  “We just got cell phones back, and my guys are working the problem. We might have a half dozen live ones left. That many have already met with unfortunate accidents.”

  “How about your people?”

  “Our people,” Martínez corrected. “We’ve taken a few serious hits, but we’ve been at war long enough to understand casualties. And we brought a couple of doctors and several nurses with us, so we’re okay for now.”

  “Listen up, because you’re going to stop being hunter killers, to hunter herders.” McGarvey said. “And this is what I have in mind.”

  EIGHTY-TWO

  General Bogan, a man with a very large, gruff voice and manner, turned out to be in his early forties, slightly built, mild looking, with thinning sand-colored hair and pale blue friendly eyes. He was standing on the tarmac dressed in sand-colorerd BDUs with two bodyguards beside a Hummer when the CIA Gulfstream pulled up to a halt, and the engines spooled down.

  He came forward when the stairs opened and McGarvey thanked the crew and stepped down.

  “McGarvey, you’ve for sure put our tits in a ringer.”

  They shook hands. “Didn’t say this was going to be easy, General. What’s the situation?”

  They headed to the Hummer, the bodyguards’ heads on swivels. “The media started descending right after your call,” Bogan said. “We’ve managed to hold them back with a little creative bullshit, but it won’t last.”